The Heat Of The Sun
by imaginotaur
Summary: Cato is the Victor of the 74th Annual Hunger Games. Clove has strange dreams about the sun scourging and reaping the Earth. They're forced together by tradition and learn things about themselves, each other, and the country they live in that drastically alter their loyalties and where they lie.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer; I don't own The Hunger Games or any of the characters. **

Prologue;

Clove had never been a sensitive person.

She didn't care when her Grandmother died. The old woman never uttered a word toward her. She didn't care when her tree house was burnt to the ground, she didn't need it anyway. She didn't care when her Father broke his arm; it would heal. She didn't care about much, and not many people cared for her.

Clove was a tiny little wisp of a girl, a very pretty girl with pretty black hair and pretty brown eyes and pretty freckles, but she was cold. She had always been cold, and she planned on being that way for the rest of her life. The only person who could warm her icy chocolate eyes was Herb, and he was gone. Maybe her brother's death was the reason she distanced herself from everyone, so she could be alone in her sorrow. Maybe she'd found that she liked isolation. Maybe she found it easy.

She wasn't surprised when Brennan Farrow's name was called at the reaping. Neither was she surprised when Cato Vechi had stepped up as volunteer. He wanted the fame and the glory, the _honor._ She didn't think it was likely he'd get what he wanted; she thought he was going to die. But she didn't _care_, she didn't have reason to.

It had been easy for her to walk home. It had been extremely easy to watch the interviews, just as easy as it was for her to see that Cato had gotten a ten for his training session. He'd be popular; he was handsome and big and intimidating and strong. He was also extremely intelligent, she knew that, but he didn't seem to want to advertise it. He looked menacing to her. Maybe he had a chance.

It was easy for her to watch them all standing in the cornucopia, all twenty four tributes, stiff and scared, before the time was up and they'd have to run. Cato looked cool and collected; he had a plan. But Ronny, the girl from two that she'd grown up with and gone to school with, looked frightened and lost. The gong had sounded and they were off, but she found her eyes flick back to Cato, who had been running for a spear and a back pack; who had then turned around, stuck someone in the stomach, and ran.

It was easy for her to watch as the days passed by in the arena. It was hard for her to watch Ronny die, but none of the other deaths affected her, because Cato wasn't dead; he was alive and well, strangely enough, and stayed that way. It was strange for her to watch Cato climb to the top, it seemed surreal. He was going to win, it was clear.

So when Clove's eyes were trained on the screen, trained on the fight between Cato and a large, dark boy, trained on the jabs and blocks, she hadn't been surprised.

She wasn't surprised when Cato's spear plunged through the boy's chest, and she wasn't surprised when he was crowned Victor. She wasn't surprised, wasn't affected; she didn't _care._


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1;

Everyone was going crazy.

The streets were swarming, loud giggles and shouts and sounds of joy and rejoicing filled the air. Banners had been hung, bringing a pop of color to the usually dull, grey buildings, making people feel like there was something to be celebrated.

Clove wasn't feeling it. Yes, there was reason for people to be happy. There was also reason to feel remorse for the deaths of twenty three children, one from this district, but no one was feeling apathetic. They were all overjoyed, only because they could claim the one person who'd survived the Games. All because of him, and his prestige, the dead were forgotten.

"Clove, come." Mariette called from the dining room of the Mharks household, where her mother, father, and older brother, Stefan waited for her. Clove grudgingly stepped out of her room in the dress given to her by her mother; a dark, extravagant sea green thing that flowed beautifully over the girl's slim, short frame. She looked truly radiant, her pitch black hair cascading in a glossy curtain of curls that ceased to flow at her hips. Never before had her parents seen her so lovely, it made them truly proud.

"Clove, we have something to tell you." Jon spoke, sitting tall and firm and stern, like Clove had always remembered him. Jon had always been a stiff man, but something, pride in his daughter, perhaps, dimly lit his eyes. The rest of his features remained sour and stoic, but something was there, behind his vacant expression. For once in her life, Clove saw in him what looked like a seed of happiness, or perhaps approval, and it was directed towards her.

But something was wrong with the situation. The Mharks family was stern, raising their children to be the same way, always pushing, pushing for them to be better. And if you failed, you were punished, and if you succeeded, you weren't. There was nothing more to that, they never had 'something to tell her'.

"There isn't going to be a Choosing Ceremony tonight." Mariette said, sitting straight in her chair.

Clove almost laughed at her foolish Mother. There was always a Choosing Ceremony, it was tradition, breaking it was highly dishonorable. Clove knew that was what Cato was out for, honor, rank. He would never do such a thing to dishonor his District; his family. The expression on Stefan's face was also skeptical, if only for a few brief seconds. However, Clove knew her Mother. There was never a lie in the household; that was law.

"Why?" Clove asked, keeping her tone indifferent. She didn't want her parents to know that her hopes were rising, that she was practically itching for something to happen, someone to do something that would upset the balance. The Choosing Ceremony was a years old tradition, starting when the very first Victor of two came home and immediately married. If someone, this someone being Cato, were to refuse marriage and go against tradition, there would be an outbreak, she could feel it. Oh, how she hungered for change, for the old ways of District Two to be tossed aside. How she longed to watch her home crumble, to be rebuilt, reshaped into something worth her time.

"Cato has already chosen." Jon, said, crushing Cloves hopes. She kept her expression blank; she'd learned it from years of mimicking her Father. Clove learned at a young age not to show any emotion. Emotions were pointless things, excuses to seek attention and find pity; she swore to herself she'd never stoop so low as to share her feelings.

"Who?" Clove asked indifferently. No doubt he'd chosen some mindless ninny with a nice body and blond hair. She'd expected nothing less from him, nothing more.

"He chose you, Clove."

With every step Clove took, her world shifted in a small way. Like when a person walks down a street and focuses in on something in the distance, it seems to move up and down, but really, it's them who are taking the steps and making it happen. She felt slightly dizzy, slightly nauseous.

Marry Cato?

She barely knew him. He was loud and obnoxious and she'd always detested him in a small way. Clove remembered the way he'd stand on his desk and flex his arm muscles while the teacher turned her back. She also remembered how he knew every answer to every question and that she was impressed. She remembered watching him train and being jealous of his accuracy and precision.

But he never bothered with Clove; he would never talk to her or even acknowledge her existence. And that was fine with her. Honestly, she liked it better that way. But as she was being led through the streets, she pondered the situation; asking, 'Why me?'

People, well, young girls, were staring at her, hatred and jealousy seeping out of every poor, like venom. The older women looked upon her as if she were someone of great honor, and she then realized; now she was. Clove looked at the ground as the peacekeepers lead her through the crowd of people and into the Courthouse of District Two.

There wasn't a single soul in sight; each footfall of the men on either side of her was a loud, painful echo in the deserted corridor. She didn't have to wonder where they were taking her, she knew. They really must have wanted to get this over with quickly. Not five minutes after she was told that she was to be married, she was being dragged off to her wedding.

Large oak doors were opened in front of Clove, and the first thing she saw was a solitary desk, and seated at it, Mayor Williamson. He didn't look up from his paperwork. He was a tall, broad man with grey hair, dwarfed by his red velvet chair. There was an extremely tall woman with purple hair standing next to the desk. Clove assumed she was an official, overseeing the paperwork, ready to hop on a train back to the Capitol with an account of Cato and Clove's marriage.

"Consent has been granted by both parties?" the purple woman asked Mayor Williamson.

"Yes." He nodded his head, scribbling something on the piece of paper. No, Clove hadn't given any consent, what was going on? She looked to the peacekeepers in confusion, but their stony faces offered no explanation.

"No." She said coolly, stepping toward the desk. Clove noticed Cato was present. He was sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, but he stood upon meeting her gaze. He didn't look any different, perhaps a bit more muscular and broad, but she thought he was this tall the last time she saw him. As he came closer, however, Clove could see the scars, the marks that couldn't be completely healed by the Capitol's medicine.

"No," she said again, turning her attention back to Mayor Williamson, "I haven't given consent."

The Mayor sighed, "You're not old enough to give consent, but your parents are, and they did."

"Yes, moving on." The capitol woman said, fixing Clove with a stern glare. They went back to filling out the forms, talking quietly in monotone.

"But I haven't agreed to this, it's not what I want," Clove stated.

"If you know what's good for you, for Cato, and for the entire District, you won't ever speak of what you _want _again." The purple woman said bitingly, and Clove was ignored.

Cato just stood there, next to her, looking distant. He had a stern, restrained look on his face; handsome, but cold, like an angry, heartless god. On the television, he hadn't seemed so big or powerful as he took someone's life, but standing next to her, Clove realized just how lethal his big muscles could be, how terrifying it was to be in his presence. He seemed to notice her staring, for he turned his head. Cato looked down at her with a glare so icy, gooseflesh spread across her body. She felt so small, so powerless, so weak and alone.

Could this really be the man she was to marry?


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2;

Wind howled outside as rain and hail pelted the ground and the roof. Thunder rolled off in the distance, accompanied by a quick strike of lightning. It was so dark outside; Clove couldn't see anything beyond the flat plane of the window and the raindrops that dotted it. Everything seemed so sinister and dark and dangerous; it was beautiful. A flash of lightning lit up the earth and sky for a few short moments, and everything was black again.

Clove went in search for what she knew best; knives. She'd always admired their strength and beauty. The small girl ran her fingers along the blade of a beautiful onyx knife. It looked more like a piece of art than a weapon, graceful and shining, catching the light when you turned it the right way. She relished in the whistling sound made when she, very quickly, ran her finger tip across the sharp surface. It was so beautiful, so perfect. This is the knife she'd use.

Clove padded silently over the cold floor. She was chilly due to her current state of undress, everything that came into contact with her bare legs and thighs made her gasp sharply. The large house made her feel so small; it was a grand thing made from stone, the floors were granite and the walls marble, it was very beautiful, but always so cold. She liked the cold, but she hated feeling small, weak. It didn't suit her.

Clove made it to the grand solid oak staircase; it was the kind that branched off from a balcony overlooking the entry and had two separate flights, sighing when her bare feet made contact with something relatively soft – oak. Granite always made her uneasy, the flat plane of ice cold stone gave her a feeling of institution; she absolutely hated it.

She quietly slipped past her room and made her way through the open door of Cato's room, where she could hear faint snores. He looked like he was in a deep sleep, and Clove envied that. She hadn't been able to sleep well for months. Clove crept quietly into the room, and she instantly felt like she was intruding. She _was _intruding, but this was different from the times she'd occasionally broken into the Mayor's house. Those little excursions were just for fun, just to see if she could do it. Here, though, she wasn't trying to hide, she was putting herself out there.

The room was large and grand, as expected, but it was totally unattended for and messy. There were clothes all over the place, as well as papers and other, completely random things. And wine bottles.

Clove stepped around these things silently, barely even breathing. She stood beside Cato's sleeping form for a while, not really knowing what she should do. Cato's brows were furrowed in his sleep, while his lips quivered. It wasn't a pout, it just looked like he was saying something or humming.

She stood perfectly still, before crouching and pouncing. Her lithe, little body launched itself high in the air, making no noise. She pivoted while she was in the air, feeling weightless, so that she would land perfectly on top of Cato. And she did, she landed there, right where she had planned to, straddling Cato's torso, her arm stretched out, holding the knife to his throat.

Cato's eyes snapped open, his lips stopped moving, and his brow un-furrowed. He stared up at her stoically, not surprised or taken aback at all. She supposed he might have suspected her as able and willing to kill him. And who wouldn't, after spending weeks in an enclosed space with twenty three others that were out for your blood? Yet, she had expected some surprise on his part, only to be greeted by knowing eyes. He was mocking her. He thought she was a coward.

She held her ground, though being so close to him made her notice, yet again, how large and intimidating he was, even while on his back. Clove was naturally a small girl, very short and very skinny, barely weighing ninety-nine pounds. She'd seen Cato lift weights twice her weight and hurl them across the room without breaking a sweat.

Clove could see the bare skin, riddled with scars, pulled tightly over steely muscles. She could feel him beneath her, so much power; _so_ much strength. Clove let out a slightly shaky breath. Everything about him looked deadly. His arms were big and long, and she knew without a doubt they'd come up to choke her at any second, but they stayed at his sides, his large, able hands resting peacefully. She couldn't bear to look at his chest, it was so chiseled and perfect; it made her arms feel like mush.

Clove grasped at the broken pieces of herself, pulling them together and gripping the knife tighter, pushing it harder against his taught skin. She wouldn't let him intimidate her, not when she had the upper hand, not when she was in her area of expertise.

"Do it." Cato said suddenly, his voice deep, husky, so low that she swore she felt it shaking her small frame. She pushed harder, but she didn't come here to kill him, surely he knew that.

"Do it!" He yelled at her, frightening her slightly, shaking her. She felt the urge to, to slit his throat and run, it was, after all, what she was trained to do, but she knew she couldn't.

"You wouldn't let me, _o_ _mighty victor_." She spat at him bitterly, mocking him in her own way. Cato just chuckled, his hands flying up to her shoulders with the speed and ferocity of lightning. Before she knew it, Clove was on her back in the soft sheets, Cato's muscular figure straddling her, looming above her menacingly.

"Try it." He said solemnly, glaring into her eyes. Clove didn't answer him. She couldn't just tell him that she wasn't here to kill him; that, for now, all she wanted was answers. He was piercing her with such hatred, she was sure her words would come out broken and weak. Cato glared down at her, his dark blue eyes filled with so much anguish and emotion, it overwhelmed her.

She could see realization dawning upon his features. He'd slain many in the arena, and he knew. He knew how people acted when their intention was homicide. He had known she wouldn't be _able_ to slit his throat, that she was too weak. But she wasn't _trying _to murder him. She wanted something else.

"You won't kill me." He said, not commanding her, just stating her weakness, "So what are you doing here?"

"Why don't you tell me?" She finally replied, pushing the blade to his throat a bit harder. Any harder and she was sure she'd draw blood; her form was perfect, the blade just centimeters from cutting into a very important artery. Cato snarled at the blade, his skin getting red and irritated where she was pressing it.

"You're here to be my _wife,_" He said sarcastically, growling as he took hold of her wrists and easily pinned them to the mattress, squeezing her delicate wrists so she dropped the knife, letting it fall to the soft bedding below her. Clove almost choked, swallowing the lump in her throat. She hadn't expected his words to be so harsh or his glare to be so sharp or his grip to be so painful.

"Is that really why I'm here, why you chose me?" She spat at him, "Am I here to be your little _darling_ wife and cook your food and clean your house and bear your children? Is that what you're using me for, to be some brainless slave?"

Clove spat her words at him, stinging with bitter venom. She was scared; scared that he might hurt her, scared that she was right in what she had just said. Cato growled, enthralled. She had never seen anyone look so angry yet so calm.

"If you think I'm using you, you're wrong, but why not?" He bit. Suddenly he was very close, closer than before, his face only inches from hers. His breath was hot against the bare skin of her collarbone and shoulders, his hands surprisingly gentle, caressing the bare skin where her shirt had ridden up. The pressure of his body against hers was alien, strangely horrible, yet indescribably wonderful.

His touch became rough. Unexpectedly, Cato settled himself in between her legs and ground his hips into hers, and Clove gasped. Her breathing was heavy, laced with fear and shock, and some primal feeling she hadn't come to terms with. He intertwined his somewhat callous hands in her hair. Cato's breath was on her throat and her face, tickling her bare skin, "Is this what you want, Clove?"

She couldn't think, she could barely breathe, in fear of him and what he had just done. She might have gone too far, she insulted him, implying that he was manipulative and controlling and crude, but why had he done _that?_

"No. Get off me." She said quietly, after a period of silence and his bare chest pressed to hers. He slowly obliged, relieving her frame from the weight of his body. She rolled off the large bed, biting back sobs of rage. He didn't look at her as she left, and she could barely resist the urge to aim her knife at his head, instead flinging it so that it stuck in the headboard, just inches away from his face. Clove walked past her room; she felt that if she slept there, she was accepting something of Cato's, and she wanted nothing from him.

Clove slipped silently down the staircase. If she could have gone home, she would have, but home was miles upon miles away. So she settled for the couch in the living room, grabbing a blanket and curling up on the plush, luxurious piece of furniture like a cat.

Clove couldn't fall asleep. The couch was probably the most comfortable thing she'd ever laid down in, but that wasn't what bothered her. Cato's words kept running through her head, accompanied by the feeling his touch inflicted on her skin. She couldn't stop thinking about it, and how things might have played out if she hadn't left when she did.

"Is this what you want, Clove?"

No. She didn't want any of it.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3;

In her dream, winter wasn't approaching; it was fading away at a rapid pace. Snow that had dotted the sweet meadow was melting into crystalline waters, joining with the stream she remembered sneaking off to as a little girl, when she wanted to be a mermaid and swim to District 4. Ice that once coated pine needles of the evergreen trees melted off in a matter of seconds. Green sprouts emerged from the ground, the grass became green, pale blue flowers bloomed from the sprouts; everything teemed with life and moved and breathed.

She saw everything clearly, too clearly. After it rains, everything is still and crisp, and that's how the scene appeared to her. The scent of flowers and pine was too sweet, the air too still, too sharp. Everything was intensified, every sense over receptive. But she could hear nothing. There was no noise. She screamed, just to see if she could hear her own voice, but no noise escaped her mouth.

Then, as if triggered by her scream, the bright sun shifted from gold to white, burning her skin and melting snow at the peak of the jagged mountains. The blue of the sky drained completely of color, turning red, like tomato soup, then deep red, like fresh blood seeping from a wound. She screamed, her skin burning, and screamed louder at the lack of noise. The ground beneath her vibrated, large boulders broke free from the once beautiful mountain, and still she heard nothing.

The relentless white sun scorched the ground, stealing life from the grass and splitting trees down the middle, all the way to the ground, until the grass turned black, smoke wafting upwards from the pretty flowers. The water evaporated from the stream until there was none left, everything but the sky and sun was pitch; burned and lifeless.

"Clove," the sound shocked her more than anything her eyes had experienced. She stopped screaming, though she hadn't been able to hear herself. She tried calling out for the person who had spoken, but she could hear nothing but the soft echoing of her name off the crumbling mountains. "Clove, I'm here."

She swore she knew the voice, but she couldn't place it, and she couldn't find the source. _He's here, _she thought, and although the sun was still burning her skin and she had no idea who 'he' was, she felt fleeting relief. _He's here, he's here, he's here._

"Clove, I'm here." They were whispers now, slowly fading. She screamed out for him until his voice totally disappeared, and she was left alone to bear the heat of the sun.

Her eyes snapped open, to a view much more welcome than that of the sun burning the world. She was looking up at the high ceiling, remembering that she had fled from Cato's room last night and had ended up sleeping on the couch. Thinking of the night before worsened the headache she'd gotten from the dream, and she sat up too quickly, wincing in pain.

It took her about five seconds to notice that someone else was in the room with her. She stood slowly, tensed and ready to swivel and strike at a moment's notice, because this person was not Cato. She'd seen a faint reflection through one of the decorative vases, and the frame was too small, too short in height. She pretended to stretch leisurely, all the while eyeing two letter openers left out on the countertop below the large oak hutch.  
She kept up the façade, yawning and carrying on, as she slowly traipsed toward the hutch. With a strike of ferocity, she lunged forward, grabbing one of the letter openers, and swiveling around to send the second one toward the intruder. The weapon whipped through the air at a blinding speed, and would've been lodged in the skull of a woman with purple hair, if she hadn't ducked.

Clove cursed as she watched the knife stick itself in the oak trim with a clean 'thud'. She was about to send the second weapon to a more sure target, the woman's center of balance, when she heard a deep, amused laugh cut through the tense, still air. At the top of the staircase stood a shirtless and ruffled Cato; he'd obviously just woken up. Cato descended the staircase slowly, with a slight swagger. Clove didn't relax at his easy attitude, but stood completely still, poised and ready.

"This is your second murder attempt in less than 24 hours. Are you a bit ill at ease, Clove?" Cato asked, and the purple headed woman laughed along with him. Clove's eyes flicked between the two of them, puzzled. But then, something clicked, and she remembered the woman from City Hall, the woman who had told her never to speak of what she wanted again.

A flame ignited in the pit of her stomach, because now she _really_ wanted that woman dead. She sent the second knife flying, aiming this time for the side of her head. Just as she had wanted, the knife whizzed right by the mocking woman's head, taking off five inches of artificially colored hair.

The woman gasped, enraged, a faint blush gracing her light brown face. Clove straightened; a nasty and very satisfied smirk on her face. She glanced at Cato, who was appraising her with a look of surprise and underlying approval. She looked away. The now slightly less purple haired woman was fingering the side of her head that had been assaulted by Clove's knife.

"If you want, I could take some off the other side," Clove offered, trailing behind the counter and fingering a chef's knife from the knife rack, before putting it back in place.

"You'll not be touching me, unless you'd fancy ending up in District Two's penitentary!" The woman seethed, still fingering her short, jagged strands.

Clove shrugged her shoulders, wondering why the woman, whose name she had figured out was Lavender (how fitting), had reared her ugly head a second time. Cato's slightly amused expression had turned sour, so she figured it had something to do with their so-called marriage. She hadn't let the fact that she was actually_ married_ sink in yet, and it was now leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. But they _were_ married, and it had been legalized days ago, so what could the delusional Capitol woman possibly want now?

"Believe it or not, I didn't come here to get a haircut from your _bride_," the woman spat at Cato and was about to continue, but he cut her off.

"I know exactly why you're here," He said, obviously annoyed, "you may as well get on with it."


End file.
